Eternally Overshadowed
by jewelledhunter
Summary: Denethor knew all too well how it felt to be the second in the hearts of men.


AN: I looked up Denethor and Aragorn on Wikipedia and realized that Denethor was only a year older than Aragorn. And it didn't help that I saw this pic with Denethor and Thorongil, Thorongil on a horse and smirking at Denethor, who's trying to ready his horse for riding and having the worst expression on his face. Whoever drew that piece of fanart, just know that my muse came from that fanart; I bow down to you!

Disclaimer: If I owned Lord of the Rings, I would be rich and famous and I would be so happy with myself...but I'm not rich or famous or really too happy with myself. Additionally, the entire "horses" premise is not really my idea; it was inspired by a fanart.

* * *

Denethor scowled at the tangled reins, his fingers clumsy from standing out in the cold for so long. He hated the miserable rain that fell upon Minas Tirith frequently; it was as good as an invitation from the Valar to catch cold. His father never understood it. After all, Denethor had spent all twenty-seven years of his life in Minas Tirith.

"Lord Denethor?" a voice said behind him. Denethor's scowl, if possible, deepened. Thorongil. Eru, it was him. The man rode up on his horse, garbed in the simple uniform of the Rangers of the North. Denethor suddenly felt clumsy next to him, in his rather clunky armor emblazoned with the Tree of Gondor. "Do you need help?" the man leaned in, his dark hair hanging rather messily around his face. He smiled, looking like he cared. Denethor ignored him.

Everyone had told Denethor how much he and Thorongil seemed alike. Both had the same length of messy dark hair and long noses, and both read the hearts of men with their piercing grey eyes. It was as if they were brothers from afar.

"If he was my brother," Denethor thought with a sneer, "then I'm afraid I'm the younger, forgotten son. Although I'm a year older."

"Denethor?" Thorongil asked. He pushed some hair out of his face, shaking his head slightly. Rain fell out of his hair. Oh, there was another way that Thorongil was considered better than him. He exuded a natural charm and was more handsome than the Steward's heir. Ladies flocked around him, even though he was already betrothed. Denethor continued to untangle the reins, his expression stoic. "Is something wrong?"

"No."

"You know that we only have an hour before your father summons us."

"I know that perfectly well!" Denethor snapped. Thorongil raised an eyebrow.

* * *

Denethor and Thorongil went before Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor. Thorongil walked with confident, quick strides up to the throne. Denethor, despite his own efforts to look regal, felt inferior. His pride reared in response to the insult and he stood straighter.

"M'Lord," Thorongil swept aside his cloak grandly, kneeling on one knee. Denethor mimicked the gesture. Ecthelion stood up and the two young men stood as well.

"Welcome back," Denethor could see his father smile at them. "I've heard your names said with reverence from the first level of the city."

Thorongil's head was slightly bowed. "It was no great battle, M'Lord. The Ithilien Rangers managed to pick most of them off before we engaged them in battle."

"A battalion of Orcs is still no small army. You have done well," Denethor could feel his father's gaze fall on him now. "My son, you are silent."

"Finally, you notice after fawning over Thorongil," Denethor thought bitterly. "I am a little tired," Denethor lied.

"Not to mention it is raining," Ecthelion smiled slightly. Thorongil looked confused. "You two make a fine team and Gondor will soon have need of your services. My summons shall come soon. For now, go out and relax."

* * *

The Lion and the Serpent was a popular tavern for Gondor's finest soldiers and even more so since the last battle. Thorongil and Denethor's soldiers sat at rough wooden tables, heartily cheering as their two captains entered the tavern.

"Lord Thorongil!" several soldiers cried out, standing up and crowding around Thorongil. A few more called Denethor over. Denethor gratefully sat at the table with his three closest soldiers: Alar, Nildo, and Altallo.

"Good to see you again, M'Lord," Alar said jovially, pouring some ale and handing it to Denethor. "Sorry for the poor fare…can't compare to your fancy wines. Gives a pleasant buzz though." Alar poured more ale down his throat, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "Excellent for drinking contests." Nildo raised his own mug and drank greedily. Only Atallo seemed sober. He drank occasionally, his lips pinched together as if in pain.

"Atallo?" Denethor asked. Atallo cast a glance at Thorongil, surrounded by happy soldiers.

"I was just thinking…Thorongil doesn't seem as if he was raised among Men," Denethor snorted. Atallo plowed on, ignoring Denethor's skeptical expression. "His speech is very refined, and he knows much about the other cultures of Middle-Earth."

"So do all of us," Denethor snapped.

"He knows of the Elves, M'Lord," Atallo whispered. "Almost as well as Mithrandir." Despite the mistrust of Elves in most of Gondor, secretly Denethor had always wished to visit the Elves. Their ethereal beauty, their sadness, and their great knowledge made Denethor feel that they would truly understand him, unlike most of the prattling, far-too-happy people of Minas Tirith.

"Your point?"

"I am merely—"

"We came here to celebrate, not to rattle on about Elves," Denethor spat, swallowing more ale.

* * *

Everyone worshipped him, everyone loved him. And everyone continued to love and worship him when he disappeared into the East, after one of his greatest deeds ever. Even in Rohan, songs were sung in his praise and Denethor could not help but think sullenly that no songs were sung in his praise.

So Denethor, son of Ecthelion, bore his jealousy of the handsome, supposedly superior Thorongil for the rest of his life. It ate away at him like a worm and he flinched each time he saw a portrait of the man's face, or Boromir pretending to be Thorongil.

Inside the depths of the palantir, he saw Thorongil, Aragorn, wearing the crown of kings that none had worn for years. Ruling Gondor. And Denethor himself was nowhere in sight. Mithrandir stood nearby, benevolently smiling.

He threw the palantir and did not look into for a long time. Despite the years that had passed, he still had not forgotten Gondor's Eagle of the Star.

* * *


End file.
